


Just You and Me, At Last

by FoiledMonsters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:18:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3803335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoiledMonsters/pseuds/FoiledMonsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Sherlock's exile was a no-go, Sherlock works to uncover the truth of the broadcast while trying to make the most of his time with John when all of their fates are still up in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just You and Me, At Last

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to [Naruthien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naruthien/pseuds/Naruthien) for the beta and to both [Naruthien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naruthien/pseuds/Naruthien) and [FervidAsAFlame](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FervidAsAFlame/pseuds/FervidAsAFlame) for the mutual cheer leading! All mistakes are mine and all Brit picks welcome! I love this fandom!

John and Mary had been holed up with Sherlock at Mycroft’s townhome since Moriarty’s face had been broadcast across Britain nearly a week ago. Mary spent most of the time avoiding the brothers by wrapping up in a thick alpaca wool blanket and reading through Mycroft’s collection of political autobiographies that he kept on hand as a matter of course. Her favorite spot so far was out on the third floor wrap-around terrace. It had brick walls and climbing ivy that made it seem like a ground-floor courtyard. There were no views out over the city and the noise of the street below was distant enough that one could forget they were right in the center of London. 

John currently sat across from Sherlock in the first floor drawing room. A set of French doors led out to a small solarium complete with flower beds and even small fruit trees. Sherlock was well aware that the costly landscaping doubled as concealment for recording devices and hidden weapons caches should any inhabitants or guards need them. Mycroft, in his own understated way, made it clear that Sherlock was not to share the information with John, despite Sherlock knowing full well that having John aware of the weapons at his disposal could save all of their lives at some point and that John would never reveal the information to Mary if told not to (hell, even if they didn’t bother to tell him not to… John was not in a very trusting place at the moment).

Not that there was any real threat to anyone here. Mycroft’s home was one of those places that don’t show up on maps and satellite imagery. Most people barely knew that Mycroft existed, let alone was someone to be targeted. Magnussen may have been the only exception.

The fact that Mycroft allowed Mary and John here or that Sherlock was even brought here instead of some underground office somewhere, had been worrying Sherlock for the last week. He had allowed himself to pose a single question, “Really, Mycroft?” upon their arrival, but his brother has just looked at him. Even now, Sherlock would be damned if he let Mycroft know he had no idea why someone who had shot his brother was allowed in Mycroft’s private residence. 

Mycroft spent most of the last week attending closed-door meetings with various heads of government, only stopping in to check in on Sherlock’s progress and to make some wholly unnecessary inquiries into his “guests” comfort. Every other night he seemed to grab a few hours of sleep as well, but was usually back out the door before the household stirred.

Like the last six days, Sherlock was digging through files and tracking IP addresses through international proxies while John ostensibly helped him sift through the mountains of hard copies Mycroft left them with. Mary never offered to help, not that she would have been allowed, but even now Sherlock can’t get a read on her. He can barely get a read on John, despite John’s absolute guilelessness in the face of subterfuge.

Take the last half hour, for instance. John was flipping through the same folder, back and forth, in between long draws from the wine glass on the table by his elbow. He kept staring at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock was too absorbed in the work to notice. Flip, flip, drink, stare, stare, flip. John should know better after all this time that Sherlock can process a great amount of information at the same time even if he’s not looking direction at it. Besides which, Sherlock very rarely misses anything at all to do with John Watson, full stop. John Watson’s bride… well, that’s another matter entirely.

John was clearly working himself up to something. That much Sherlock could tell. It was something emotional and therefore an uncomfortable subject. Whether John was uncomfortable because he didn’t want to say it or didn’t think he had the right to ask it, whatever “it” was, couldn’t be determined. If Sherlock were to prompt John, though, John would shut down and perhaps put it off indefinitely. Sherlock had learned to wait John out if he wanted to know what was going on in his friend’s head.

Across the room, John shifted, setting the folder back down on the pile he had grabbed it from. He cleared his throat before placing his hands on his knees, sitting up straighter. Ah, a question then. Sherlock kept his eyes on his laptop screen and continued to work, allowing John the illusion of distraction in order to build confidence for whatever conversation they were about to embark on.

“You were going to say something,” John said.

It was just like John to attempt to ask a question by stating something vague. 

“Hmm?” As much as Sherlock wanted to turn and engage, he knew better than to try to work it out for himself when clearly John was building up to something. Patience was not his strong suit, but Sherlock would and had done more for John in the past. A few more seconds of waiting weren’t too hard. Just frustrating.

“On the tarmac,” John elaborated. Sherlock took a breath through his nose. This was… interesting. Unexpected. Unprecedented? Maybe. Maybe not. John had made forays into emotional territory before. Sherlock had shut him down every time in the past—it had been preposterous. Emotions and the Woman. How were we feeling about that, indeed, as if it was her that had any claim on Sherlock’s faculties. It was painful how oblivious and wrong-footed John could be sometimes. 

“I believe I did say something. On the tarmac,” Sherlock finally replied. Dismissive. Giving John an out that he could take if he didn’t really want this conversation, if he felt obliged for some reason to pursue it. 

“Right. But that wasn’t what you were going to say,” John leaned forward a bit, flexing his left hand. Still no actual question, Sherlock noted. A deduction of sorts. Or a prompt. A bookmarked place in their interactions that he’s pulling them back to. Completing a circuit. 

“Wasn’t it?” Sherlock still feigned distraction, allowing the typing, clicking, and flipping of pages to fill up the air between them. Leaning forward showed intent to continue, discomfort in the left hand showed that John believes he’s entering dangerous territory. Other than that, John has remained stock still after a half hour of fidgeting. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he felt about that. Did he want John to drop it? Was he ready for this conversation? Now, when he didn’t have a plane idling behind him to take him away from the consequences of it?

“No. No, it wasn’t. You were going to say something. Instead, you made a joke,” John dipped his chin and lifted his eyebrows. The look held a whisper of the fond exasperation that Sherlock had seen so little of since his return—the looks he had received since having so much more weight than they once did.

“That wasn’t a joke. I’m quite disappointed you’re not planning to name your daughter after me.” Something that could tie him to John for the rest of his life. Something that even if the six-month mission had gone forward would ensure John had a reason to mention him, to think about him, long into the future that would go on without him. Everyone would know, then, what Sherlock Holmes once meant to John Watson. He almost faded away once. Erased from his life. There was an ache deep inside Sherlock, still, at the thought that every moment they weren’t in the same room, standing or working side-by-side, was a moment that John could choose to cut Sherlock out of his life forever.

“You are not. And you’re changing the subject.” John’s eyes had narrowed. He must have caught something in Sherlock’s expression, or in the minute pause of work. Likely, he wouldn’t know what to make of what he saw, but still, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel just a bit closer to John when he was the one being observed.

“Correcting the subject.” Sherlock could feel the smirk on his face and knew that now John was aware that he had Sherlock’s full attention. Their banter always did draw them both in.

“That was not the subject. That was the context.” John’s entire posture relaxed all at once, his mouth curling up. He shook his head just a little. We’re so good at this, Sherlock thought. The banter. Being together. It was everything. To him, at least. 

“Mm, correcting the context, then. Not a joke. Therefore perfectly likely to have been the intended communication.”

“Nope.”

“I had meant to tell you my real name.” Sherlock stopped typing, sitting up and pushing the folders around him off to the side so he could put his hands up beneath his chin while he watched John watching him.

“Nope. Never occurred to you. Didn’t matter to you.” John crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin.

“Then why’d I say it?” Sherlock challenged him. He wanted to see what John had worked out and what had made him broach this particular conversation. He watched John take a deep breath and turn his gaze out the window towards the winter remains of the garden outside.

“You asked to speak to me alone. Then said nothing. We could have just as well said nothing to each other while everyone else was around. You pulled me aside to say something specific. To say goodbye in private.” John paused a moment, his eyes flicking back over to Sherlock’s. “To say something private. Your full name is not private. Baby names are not private. In fact, if that was the point, you were better off telling Mary as she’s the one most likely to choose the baby name.” John’s smile turned that touch of bitter that Sherlock had seen so often over the course of his months of recovery.

“So, not your name and not baby names,” John continued, “but something that made you think of baby names. Something that made you think of my baby, thus of me and Mary. Something about either me or Mary that you’d always meant to tell me.” John took another breath, this one steadying, as he had worked himself up a bit. He turned, once again placing his hands on his knees, back ramrod straight as his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. “You see, Sherlock, why after the last year of lies and deceits, I’m quite keen to know what you decided not to tell me during what you thought to be our last conversation ever.”

John was clearly agitated and Sherlock stared at him. For some reason it had never occurred to Sherlock that the general sentiment of what he had intended to express hadn’t been fully communicated in that moment. It had seemed so obvious. So much so that uttering the words suddenly seemed superfluous. Mycroft had been an insufferable prat about it for the whole week, mostly through text messages, but still. He had told Sherlock that he’d gushed for god’s sake. But John. John and his trust issues. Between Sherlock and that murdering harlot of a wife, no wonder his thoughts go to the worst.

“Did you just deduce me?” Sherlock grinned. Jokes were what they did, after all. 

“Not just now, no.” John’s posture relaxed again as he cut his eyes away from Sherlock’s and ran his hand over his face. “Might have taken all of this last week.”

“Not bad. Really, John, I’m impressed. I mean, you didn’t get far enough to even give yourself a shadow of an answer to your question, but still not bad.” Sherlock couldn’t help the fondness that welled up inside. He missed John every second they were apart and lived for these moments when he could make John smile. That had become the whole point for him from the moment in that train carriage when he’d finally, finally had John Watson back, and they were grinning at each other and all was right with the world.

“Oh, shut it and answer the question.”

“Why? By this time next year I’m sure you’ll have worked it out.”

“You are a prat.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, noting again the ridiculous expression that must be on his face. “I’ve been told.”

“But at least you’ve admitted there’s something to figure out,” John said.

“No, I don’t think I did anything of the sort.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

John just tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, his mouth twisting in that way it had of telling Sherlock without any words that John wasn’t buying it.

“I didn’t!”

“Answer. The. Question.” Captain Watson. Even with a smile, that tone had a way with Sherlock.

“If there was something, and I’m not saying there was, then it couldn’t have been very important as I don’t recall it,” Sherlock lied. He very much wanted this conversation to never end. Besides the sentimental, useless drivel that he’d end up sputtering because of it, there was just so little that had them just being together anymore. 

“You don’t recall the last words you were going to say to me before flying off to your death as punishment for committing a murder to keep my wife out of jail.” John never hesitated when talking about Mary or mentioning her. He didn’t stutter over the word wife as he had all those months ago standing just inside the door of the flat they once shared facing off against her with Sherlock at his back. Sherlock couldn’t understand it, this level of acceptance, of forgiveness, even if he had laid the groundwork for it. The ideas he set in motion while bleeding out internally may not have been his best ever.

“Nope.”

“Deleted it, did you?”

“Could have done. If there ever was anything to delete.” Sherlock knew he was teasing, flirting. He also knew he was shit at it if he wanted to try it on purpose, for real, and not just for a role, but apparently whenever he got near John, most of what he said ended up being playful. It was fun, yes, when John played along, but it was just so embarrassingly obvious and seemed to happen without his direct say so most of the time.

“Right. Right. Okay, have it your way. Just tell me this: was it anything to do with Mary? Something else I should know about her?”

“No idea.” There’s a pause and Sherlock watched again as John’s entire posture shifted, deflating. The banter was apparently over. Sherlock just couldn’t get a handle on John these days. One minute to the next. He wanted to help, to be a positive addition to his life, but how could he? He was almost sent to his death a week ago. So much trauma and pain and what right does Sherlock have to try to ease it?

“Sherlock. I just. I just don’t know if I can take anything else. I’m serious. I don’t know if I’d survive another shock like that. I just need to know. And I need to hear it from you if you know it. Even if she were to walk in and tell me herself right now. I think I’d only survive it if I heard it from you. “

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Again, Sherlock had not expected John’s line of thought to turn so dire, but every word John uttered was another glimpse into what was happening inside him and a clue into what Sherlock might be able to do to help.

“Maybe not, but I expect the unexpected from you. I expect the mad and the awful. But through it all, even through the lies and the deceptions, the bloody murder for god’s sake, you’re still you. And I know you. You’re a constant, and as long as I’m in your orbit, I don’t think anything could shake me too badly. You keep me centered, and I just, I just want you to know that I’d rather hear it from you. I’d rather hear anything from you. Whatever it was, or whatever comes up in the future, I’d rather hear it from you.”

“John.” Sherlock didn’t quite know what to say. What did that all mean? Their time together probably still had an expiration date on it that was rapidly approaching, even with this reprieve. Sherlock couldn’t help but look at John, his friend. His only friend. His best friend. Which was all he was going to say, that day, after all. He would have said more—said everything—if he thought it would mean anything, but that one thing would, he knew. Sherlock felt his eyes darting around the folders and pages in front of him, feeling more exposed than he thought he would. “It had nothing to do with Mary. Nothing to do with you either, really. Just… I just wanted to tell you, just to say it out loud once, even though I know you know, that you have to know you’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had.

“I lived my life for so long without any friends, and you helped me see the other people in my life that matter, and you brought so much happiness into my life. Before we said goodbye, I just wanted to tell you that I want you to be happy. But sentiment is not my strong suite. I couldn’t get the phrasing right. It sounded trite and empty and so overrun with sentiment. So I made you laugh, instead. Because if it was the last thing I ever saw of you, I wanted it to be your smile.”

A long bought of silence followed. Had Sherlock meant to say all that? He thought he had, but couldn’t figure out why his hands were shaking where he had set them in his lap. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” John looked wrecked. Sherlock certainly hadn’t meant for him to look like that.

“Not good?” 

“No, it was good. Very good.” John ran his hand over his face again as he stood up. He nodded to himself before stepping around the coffee table between then. “You utter berk. Jesus Christ, how do I survive you?” He sat down beside Sherlock as he wrapped his arms around him, reminding Sherlock of his wedding day. 

“I’m not sure I follow.” Sherlock held very still, not sure what to do, but John had his arms around him and there wasn’t a room full of people staring or anything he was meant to be finishing, so he leaned into it a bit.

“Forget it, just. Thank you. Thank you.” John’s grip got tighter, and Sherlock slowly, ever so slowly, raised his arms and wrapped them around John, letting his hands spread out against his ribs as his forehead rested on John’s shoulder. Sherlock let himself hold on tight and set his breathing to match John’s as he became surrounded by the smell and feel of him. Just this one moment, Sherlock told himself, he would take this one moment for himself. It was so much more than he ever thought he’d have, and it was in that moment that he was reminded that it was all worth it. Whatever he’d done, whatever he would have to do, it was all worth it. Because it was all for John Watson.

Eventually, John pulled back, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand as he stood up. 

“I’m off to bed,” he said, scanning the piles of folders and binders that surrounded them. “You should try to get some sleep yourself.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. It might be a good night to rest for a few hours. The leads they had were already cold and he hadn’t felt the need for sleep in a few days. It was bound to catch up to him soon. He’d wait until he was sure John and Mary were asleep. Then he’d check the security feeds one more time before heading up to the set of rooms Mycroft kept for him. His mind was distracted. 

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock listened to the sound of John’s footsteps heading down the hall and then padding up the stairs. He hoped tomorrow his mind would be clearer, but it didn’t seem likely.


End file.
